Chapter One
Grantaire can feel his limbs trembling almost imperceptibly as he faces the class of fresh-faced art majors. Fuck, he needs a drink.
"Okay, so Professor Aguillard is going to be off for a few days, so it looks like I'm going to be taking you poor sods while he's away." He gets a few snickers at that. "I'm R. None of that 'professor' bullshit." More snickers, mostly from the girls. "The Prof left um… obsessively detailed instructions for these lessons, but they sound kind of dull to me, so we're not going to listen to those. First off, I want to see what sort of art you like, how you define yourselves, so I want you all to draw whatever you think shows me who you are. Alright. Go." Grantaire slumps down at his desk and closes his eyes against the headache hammering away at the insides of his skull. He can hear the students getting out pencils, paints and the like, the odd snippet of whispered conversation filtering through the lovely daydream about the bottle of absinthe he would just love to be pouring down his throat right now.
"Quite nice, isn't he?"
"Look at his hair."
"Look at his eyes!"
Grantaire is permanently baffled by these comments. He doesn't consider himself to be unattractive, but likewise he doesn't see anything special in his features, and cannot see what these girls find so appealing about his face, clearly unwashed and sporting three days of stubble. Brushing off the voices, he tries to return to his intoxicating reverie, but it is not long before it is destroyed by the smash of glass. Hefting himself to his feet and opening his eyes (since when was the sun so bright, anyway?),he surveys the class before him. Most of the students are still working away diligently with charcoal pencil, oil pastel or watercolour, but a blonde girl is on her feet, staring dumbly at the dirty water pooled on the floor, and the remnants of the jar that once contained it. She looks like she's going to cry.
"It's fine. Just, go and get a broom from the store cupboard, and some towels to clear this up." The girl scampers off to collect the requisite items, and Grantaire sighs. Now he's up, he might as well have a look at what his new charges are doing. Weaving in between the budding young artists, he spares only the most cursory of glances for most of the pieces. Self-portraits and angsty daubings he really doesn't have time for now. He'll save that chore for later (oh, the joy. Why did he sign up for this, again?). Only a very few of the pictures showed any real talent. He has to stop for a moment by one canvas to admire the work. It's yet another self-portrait, but this one is done with flair, subtle motifs and images wending their way through the colours.
"This is really something, you know," he says, watching the boy add another rose to his artwork with a flourish. "What's your name?"
"Oh, it's Jehan. And do you really think it's that good?" The boy- Jehan- turns his face up to Grantaire's (Christ, this kid looks like he's just stepped out of the eighties. New Romantic or something,) eyes shining with pleasure. There's a rose tucked behind his ear just like the one on his easel. Good Lord.
"I'd hardly say it if I didn't think so. But you might want to consider putting some gouache in there for highlights, or maybe some ink around the edges. Don't limit yourself too much to one medium." With this advice, Grantaire moves to the next student, his boredom returning along with the mediocre offerings. He passes through two more rows of uninspiring pieces, occasionally murmuring an affirmation or suggesting a different line just there, but generally not paying too much attention to his work. At the last workstation, however, he stops again. Instead of some self-engrossed, GCSE-level piece, Grantaire is staring at what appears to be a battle scene: dark browns and greys swirled together, the flag of France draped behind it. He can see no trace of the (extremely attractive- no. Not appropriate. Shut up, brain) person laying oils to canvas, unlike every single one of his classmates' pieces, which positively scream ego. The drawing itself is not of the highest degree, but that, Grantaire has found, is only of slight consequence in art, and techniques can be learned. What this picture has is something innate. It shows passion. It conveys the artist's feelings in every brush stroke.
The boy glances at Grantaire expectantly, and he is sure his heart does a little jig in his chest. He needs a drink, that's all. His blood alcohol levels are running dangerously low.
"You, ugh, you should think more about your composition, maybe. The flag looks a bit incongruous there." (Incongruous? Who the Hell says incongruous?) Grantaire wheels away quickly, huffing back down at his desk and pulling out some Art History papers to mark. They all get Bs, his attentions meandering elsewhere. That boy is a student (albeit a very good-looking one) and he has to maintain a professional exterior (because he's been doing such an excellent job of that so far- giving vague instructions, trying to get out of doing any actual work.) Hey, at least he's not half-cut (well bravo, for managing something most people do every day of their working lives.) Anyway, it doesn't matter how he feels about any of his students. They're not really his after all, he's just filling in until their proper teacher gets back. Which should be relatively soon. Hopefully.
Grantaire glances up at the antique clock on the wall, which reads half-past six. Bloody old buildings, nothing ever works. And he forgot his watch this morning, leaving it laying on the side of his bath. Pulling out his mobile, Grantaire checks the time, and sees he has a missed call from Combeferre, his flatmate. Class is due to end in five minutes. He might as well wrap things up early and see what Combeferre wants.
"Alright, everyone. If you could just leave your work where it is, I'll have a look at them once they've had time to dry and get back to you for next lesson, okay?" His announcement is greeted by more uproarious nattering (his head really does hurt) as students jam their supplies in their bags or back on shelves and make their way through the door. Grantaire doesn't watch them go: he's too engrossed in sending a text, which is why he doesn't notice that a certain student remains in the classroom.
"R?" (Fuck.)
"Ah, you're the flag-boy, right?" Grantaire's voice sounds strangely falsetto, but 'flag-boy' doesn't notice- or at least chooses not to comment.
"Enjolras," says the boy, dipping his head in a show of courtesy which Grantaire supposes would seem ludicrous from anyone else (you're acting like a love-struck teenager. Stop this.) "I was wondering if you maybe have any free time to help me prepare my final piece. I really want to get a good mark, but I just don't have the skill." Enjolras smiles ruefully, hopefully, and Grantaire readies himself to refuse.
"I'm sure I can find the time," he hears himself say (wait, what?) "You should be aware that teachers aren't actually allowed to coach their pupils (good. Blame it on the system. Smooth.) But I'm not technically your teacher, am I? So it should be fine (no. Shit.)" Enjolras doesn't smile, but his Apollonian features brighten in gratitude (stop mooning, R) as Grantaire reaches down to scribble his e-mail address on one of the multitudinous scraps of paper littering the desk (this is almost as bad as giving him your number) and hands it to Enjolras, who slips it straight into his back pocket.
"Shall I send you a copy of my timetable, then? So you can see when we're both available"
"That sounds like a good idea." Enjolras nods his head once more, before turning to stride out of the doors and into the corridor, blond curls bouncing around his head like a halo (stop it.)
This is a bad idea. A very bad idea indeed.